


Muse and the Music

by mellostopheles



Series: Tilt Your Head and Turn it to the Sun [1]
Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21744169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellostopheles/pseuds/mellostopheles
Summary: Already missing the warm days of summer, Elliott takes a trip to the library to try and find some inspiration for his own writing. Letting himself get lost in a good book turns out to have an unexpected positive consequence when he stumbles across someone having similar creative issues. Or when they stumble across him, anyway.
Relationships: Sam/Elliott (Stardew Valley)
Series: Tilt Your Head and Turn it to the Sun [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561396
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	Muse and the Music

The air was just starting to turn, and it was hard to ignore the fact that autumn was coming up fast. It was the first cold day, with a breeze coming off the water, and summer was over for another year. Elliott was sad to see it go, but, as he turned the handle of the library door, he was ready to welcome in something new. He had put on a scarf that morning, along with his thicker coat, in anticipation of the colder weather.

The library was empty when he walked inside. Not that that was a surprise. Unless the schoolchildren were there, it was usually just him and Gunther, and the curator never strayed from behind the counter until it was time to close up. Elliott looked over at him now, and saw that the man was engrossed in examining a small, twinkling rock with a magnifying glass. He would leave him be.

He walked towards the shelves that marked the edge of the library, where books blended into museum exhibits. He already knew what he was looking for. This was the same shelf he had visited the last dozen or so times he’d been in here. Running his fingers along the spines as if playing his piano, Elliott eventually found the one he wanted. He plucked the book from the shelf with a smile. Another novel by his current favourite author, one he hadn’t yet read. The perfect treat for a cold day. He had intended to borrow the book and take it home with him, curl up in the embrace of the overzealous heating of his cabin, but he was too impatient. It started with him reading the back cover and then, already engrossed, he bent open the book without a thought. A moment later he was resting his back against the edge of the shelves, already several pages deep.

Elliott was so lost in the world inside the book that he did not notice that there was anyone else around. Over in the museum half of the building, twirling about to the music blaring through his headphones, Sam was sweeping the floor. He had been silent enough to remain a secret from Elliott. For his own part, Sam had not noticed anyone come in. He was too focused on the song.

Sam’s dance spun him ‘round and ‘round over the museum floor, pushing his broom under display cases and sweeping it zigzag across the tiles. Calling what he was doing work was a stretch at this point. The floor wasn’t looking any cleaner for his efforts. Still, he didn’t notice. He was happily absorbed in the music beaming through his ears. So absorbed that he didn’t even look up as his cleaning took him out of the artefact display area and into the library. By way of Elliott’s feet.

Elliott reacted quickly as Sam stumbled over his outstretched shoe, grabbing the screaming man as he tripped and fell. He reacted on instinct, unthinkingly flinging his book into the ether as he did so. Sam was saved, caught in Elliott’s arms about a foot away from banging his skull against the ground. He was panting heavily from adrenaline, and Elliott held him for a moment before gently righting him onto his feet. Even then, he kept a steadying hand around his waist until he was sure Sam would be able to stand.

“Goodness! Are you all right?” he asked, and Sam nodded, managing to catch his breath.

“Yeah, yeah… fine, I…” Elliott’s attention had already waned. Now that Sam was safe, he had remembered the book he had so cruelly mistreated. Sam watched him as his eyes darted about, before landing on the discarded novel. He stared after Elliott as he leapt over to the thing on the floor and scooped it up in his arms, like it was a bird with a broken wing.

“Oh no… oh my, it’s all my fault…” Elliott muttered to himself, cradling the book. The spine was scuffed from its rough landing, but it was otherwise fine.

“I think it’s okay,” Sam said, appearing beside him. Elliott turned his head to smile, trying to reassure Sam that he could let go of his guilty expression.

“Yes, it’ll be fine. I just hate to see books in pain, as it were. It cuts me deeply.” He sighed, and went over to one of the tables laid out around the room, resting his hand on the surface and putting down the book.

Sam dusted himself off, brushing his hands down his shirt and removing several large clots of dust that had taken up residence. He leant the broom up against the shelves, out of the way. His headphones had been yanked off his ears in the fall, but he clicked off his music player and went over to put them on the table beside Elliott.

“I’m sorry if I, like, hurt your book.” Elliott gave off a soft laugh.

“No, no, _I’m_ sorry for being dramatic.” He flicked his wrist and shook his head. “I suppose I should have been paying more attention, but I was daydreaming myself away…” Standing straight, he rested his fist under his chin, looking at Sam through a long sweep of ginger hair. “I was trying to find some inspiration, you see.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam asked, pulling out one of the chairs with an unpleasant squeak and planting himself in it. Elliott continued with what was beginning to feel like a monologue, now staring into space.

“Lately I’ve found myself in a rut. My writing is struggling, and I feel completely helpless to fix it. Whatever I do, whatever I try, it refuses to come out well. The book I was reading… that author manages something I can only imagine. They’re making something beautiful and I have to admit, I’m jealous.” He sighed deeply to himself before looking down to realise that Sam had been listening attentively to every word. If only he could find a way to get his readers so invested in what he had to say.

“Why do you read it at all then?” Sam asked, and Elliott cocked his head, analysing the question.

“Oh! Well, jealousy can be very motivating, as long as you're a good-hearted person. It doesn’t do a person any good to be bitter.” He smiled. Sam did the same. It was helping, actually, to talk about it. He so rarely bothered to try and talk people’s ear off about his work, that he had forgotten how cathartic it could be to go through these things with someone other than his rose plant.

“I get it.” Sam grinned, leaning back in his chair. Elliott had to wonder if he was trying for another possible head injury. “Sometimes, when I’m listening to music, I end up thinking how cool it’d be to make something like that. Like, when I put on my favourite music and I really get into it, I just think about what it’d be like to know you made something that mind-blowing and then I completely lose it, you know? ‘Cause imagine!” His chair rocked forwards and he ended up punctuating his thought with the sound of his feet slamming into the floor.

Elliott was a little taken aback by his energy. Sam – and that was his name, wasn’t it? Sam? They had so rarely spoken to one another – seemed just as passionate as he was. Writing, music, it was all art in the end. Elliott was charmed by the realisation that they shared this common thread of creativity. Who would have known?

“Do you write music?” Elliott asked.

“Oh yeah, you know it!” Sam said with a wide grin. “Music, lyrics… I like to mess around with all of it. I dunno that I’m very good, but hey, one day, right?”

“What sort of music do you make?”

“That’s the thing, right, it’s so hard to limit yourself.” Sam stuck his hands out in front of his chest, gesturing at nothing, rushing to put his thoughts into words. “Sometimes I _know_ electronica is the way of the future, but then suddenly I start thinking about rock music and how that’s lyrically more interesting, but then it’s like hell, you know, pop music isn’t so bad either. And it makes more sense if you want an actual career in this stuff. Then I think, wait, do I really want to be a pop star? Even if it is overlooked sometimes, but then so is electronic music, and I’m… I’m back at the start again.” He laughed to himself, shaking his head a little and looking at his hands.

“I have the same problem!” Elliott exclaimed, clenching a hand in front of his chest. “Why, a lot of my older works were mysteries and crime stories, but at some point I decided to try and open up to new things. After all, I’d hate to think I was becoming derivative. I started a few science fiction outlines, and they were so much fun to work on, but _so_ complicated to keep track of everything! The characters, the names, the places… A whole universe that needs to stay inside your head! Then, of course, I’ve tried writing romance, and when it works well it feels so warming, but inevitably… let’s just say, it’s difficult to keep those stories from turning to cardboard without the right inspiration.”

“I get that,” Sam agreed. “Writing love songs is, heh, well… it’s hard when you don’t feel that way about anyone.” A faint blush spread over his cheeks, and he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand.

They continued talking as Sam got back to work. He picked up his broom, but left his headphones behind as Elliott strolled after him, following him around the museum for what turned into hours. They wandered through thoughts of novels, songs, lyrics, and poems. Fame and obscurity. Writer’s block and bursts of inspiration. The time just disappeared.

Elliott had never paid that much attention to Sam before. The two of them rarely interacted. Sam was a lot more social than him, having lived in the valley since childhood instead of arriving in a flurry of determination after leaving home as Elliott had. He certainly seemed more settled here, and there was no reason for him to leave that happy bubble. Elliott had mostly spoken to him at community events. He could remember a time last year when Sam had torn the shoulder seam of his suit at the flower dance, and he had helped him fix it with paperclips before the main event. Other than that, he had mostly caught sight of him at the saloon, chatting with his friends on a Friday night. There was little reason for them to have struck up a friendship, but Elliott was starting to think that he had overlooked him.

There was something about Sam’s attitude, his sunny persona and warm insistence on feeling positive, that was in itself inspiring. It was hard to resist being hopeful while talking to him. Elliott was beginning to feel too hot in his scarf and coat. It felt like summer wasn’t done with him quite yet.

Sam began wrapping up, having pushed the dirt on the floor around enough for one day, and Elliott walked with him to the cupboard where the broom was kept. He found himself looking at the long stands of blonde hair that jutted out from the collar of Sam’s work shirt, and watched with an unfamiliar feeling of impatience as Sam ran a hand across the back of his neck to catch them. When Sam spun back around to fix him with a smile Elliott was, briefly, lost for words.

“The working day is done,” Sam sung, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. “Sorry for making you watch me clean. Must have been boring.”

“Good conversation can make even the most mundane task seem more exciting than a fairground,” Elliott laughed awkwardly, loosening his scarf. He hoped he wasn’t sweating. The central heating in here must be ridiculous.

“I guess that’s true!” Sam said with a small shrug. “Anyway, where are you –”

“You know, I’ve just remembered that I skipped lunch,” Elliott said, putting on a laugh. It was true, he had. And breakfast. Being an unsuccessful writer wasn’t exactly great for his bank account. “Perhaps we could go somewhere and get something to eat? That way, we could carry on our conversation somewhere more comfortable.” Somewhere with chairs, at least. His feet were beginning to complain.

“Oh yeah, we could go over to the saloon.” Elliott knew he shouldn’t have been shocked by Sam’s easy agreement, not after sharing an energised conversation that had lasted several hours, but he still found himself twinging with excitement.

“That’s the right idea!”

“Maybe we could split a pizza?” Sam suggested, smiling. Elliott thought for a moment about sitting in front of a huge disk of crayon-coloured cheese. Grease getting all over his fingers and soaking the sleeve of his coat. Dripping onto his shirt and leaving little raindrop stains.

“Or… perhaps something else,” he said, with an apologetic laugh. Sam shrugged, and nodded his head towards the door. Elliott breathed a sigh of relief and lead on.

Well, he thought to himself. They didn’t need to have _everything_ in common.


End file.
